


Substitution

by alocin42



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, One-sided Johnlock, Sibling Incest, frustratedly unrequited!Sherlock, jealous!Mycroft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-16
Updated: 2012-09-16
Packaged: 2017-11-14 09:38:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/513857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alocin42/pseuds/alocin42
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft Holmes thought his brother had found a new keeper, but letting go is never easy. Written for the SherlockBBC Summer '12 Commfest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Substitution

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first attempt at a Holmescest fic; it's a difficult dynamic and I'm not sure I nailed it quite how I would have liked to but I hope the prompter I wrote it for found something in it they could enjoy.

It was a little before midnight as his driver dropped him off, but thanks the repeated crossing of date lines Mycroft Holmes had worked his way through more than the usual number of midnights over the past 48 hours. He had a burning desire to be soundly asleep in his own bed for the next one.

He loathed air travel but regrettably, even with modern communications technology as advanced as it was, there were times when the delicate negotiations and more forceful arm-twisting of inter-government business had to be conducted in person. He could have turned to medication and soundly snored his way back across the continents, but he disliked the way prescription sleeping pills fogged his mind long after the landing gear was reunited with the tarmac at Heathrow. Instead he favoured a generous measure of the best scotch available on the plane and allocating the time to catching up with paperwork; a necessary evil for even the most shadowy of civil service positions.

The resulting fatigue led to a certain amount of muttered swearing as he fumbled with the key to his front door, a large stack of files and his overnight bag. The lock finally yielded and he opened the door with a half-hearted kick before depositing the files and bag on the hall table then switching on the hallway light. He turned towards the alarm system keypad set high on the wall, and actually began typing the code to deactivate the system before the absence of a silent, flashing LED alerted him that the alarm was already switched off.

Mycroft stared at the alarm panel for what he would later classify as an embarrassingly long moment before the significance of this fact became apparent. The shortlist of individuals and group representatives who might want to have an unscheduled midnight chat with him – potentially continuing said chat with a non-negotiable and one-way trip handcuffed to a heavyset thug in the back of a panel van – was unfortunately lengthy. To be perfectly honest it was a part of the job he'd always rather hoped to avoid experiencing.

An unfamiliar prickle of fear was starting to work its way down his neck as he contemplated whether he would have time to silently alert the security team that was based just a few hundred yards down the road – a distance he'd once insisted on to maintain a semblance of privacy, misguided as it now seemed. He was scanning the doorways off the hall while reaching for the phone in his coat pocket when he spotted the collection of torn envelopes, addressed to him, leaning against the lamp on the table.

The frisson of fear that had been building dissipated in a heavy sigh. The sort of professionals who could deactivate government-issue security systems didn't usually snoop through their target's post and leave the evidence lying where it would be immediately spotted. But the sort of little brother who could guess – sorry, _deduce_ – his passcodes with frustrating ease and who had been nosily going through his letters for as long as he could read...

"Sherlock?" he called speculatively, not particularly expecting an answer as he divested himself of coat, scarf and gloves. He briefly wondered whether he should ignore his brother for the time being and go straight to the kitchen to find another stiff drink. His last sighting of Sherlock had been him practically skipping away from a near-death experience, giddily arm-in-arm with his new army doctor. A remarkably foolhardy, adrenaline-addict, crack-shot army doctor, who actually seemed to enjoy spending time in Sherlock's company and who had both moved in with him and killed for him within hours of their introduction. If he hadn't had oversight of all the top secret government scientific facilities, he would have said the man had been grown in a lab to be the perfect companion for his brother.

He should have been delighted at this progress – finally, Sherlock seemed to have emotionally bonded with someone who wasn't just a skull. But as much as he wanted, he truly wanted Sherlock to find some stability in his life and settle down into some semblance of a normal, socially acceptable relationship – or the closest his brother could manage – the reality of it all, and the new distance it put between them had left a distinctly hollow area in his chest. Mycroft turned away from the kitchen and sternly reminded himself that their father had been an excellent example of how scotch could not fill such a hole.

There was a subdued glow of light coming from his study, and Mycroft let it lead him to his uninvited houseguest. The desk was untidily strewn with papers, several of which were marked confidential and had clearly come from his locked file cabinet; a sign that Sherlock had been waiting in the house for at least an hour. Mycroft suspected he'd got details of his travel plans from somewhere restricted, and made a mental note to have his assistant thoroughly check the IT security logs. His brother was in his shirtsleeves, coat and jacket in a crumpled pile on the floor, less sitting in the leather armchair than poised on it as he watched the doorway keenly.

"Thought I was someone else?" There was more than a trace of mocking humour in Sherlock's tone, but his brother's expression was focused and thankfully clear as he drank in the mass of data presented by Mycroft's appearance and demeanour. It was as though he were fixed in the sudden heat of a spotlight, but the warmth was familiar and he let it sooth away some of his travel-worn tiredness. "You know you really should arrange better home security if you're going to be meddling in that particular presidential race."

"My security is fine, thank you Sherlock." Mycroft replied evenly as he returned the observation in kind, noting everything from the fresh scuffs on his shoes (scaling the garden wall?) to how overdue he was for a haircut (what _would_ Mummy say...). He slotted each fact together to reveal the whole, methodically cataloguing the changes. He narrowed his eyes as contradictory data became apparent, and began a mental review of the surveillance reports and security files he'd diligently been compiling on his brother and his new ‘friend'. There was insufficient data to reach an amended conclusion, but something didn't quite tie together.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows in an expression of feigned innocence that had never fooled his brother, even when it had been plastered over the face of a cherubic schoolboy with those same dark curls. In response Mycroft gave a tired eye roll of exasperation and half-sat, half-collapsed into a second armchair facing his brother.

"I confess I wasn't expecting you," Mycroft began in measured tones, keeping a watchful eye on the coiled figure before him and noting how his left leg was skittering slightly with excess nervous energy. "It's been almost three months, hasn't it?"

"Seventy nine days. Don't be obtuse, Mycroft." Sherlock gave no indication he was about to offer an explanation for his absence, and affected to look slightly bored at the topic of conversation.

"But of course, shortly after your last visit you ran into the good Doctor Watson..." Mycroft pressed forward. "A new flat, a new flatmate – one content to go dashing around London with you, helping with your cases. And I hear you've plenty of new clients thanks to his rather melodramatic tales of your _adventures_."

"Most of the cases have been pedestrian," Sherlock countered, a touch of bitterness creeping into his tone. "Not worth my time. And London's criminal class seem to be off on their summer holidays or are otherwise behaving even more stupidly than usual. Even Lestrade is keeping on top of things without having his hand held."

"So if the work hasn't been keeping you away..." Mycroft let the implication hang in the air between them for a moment. "And where is the good Doctor Watson this evening?"

"Out," came the flat response. "A new pharmacy rep visited his practice last week. She's a good four inches taller than him, and keeps parakeets." He sniffed with what purported to be casual disdain, but it took little deductive skill to note the pain that flashed across his face. "This is the second date, it won't last more than three at the most."

"I see," Mycroft offered, concluding that sympathetic consolations would not be welcomed. That answered that question, while simultaneously raising a dozen more.

Mycroft sighed inwardly. He'd watched Sherlock resist dipping as much as a toe into what he'd always claimed was the unnecessary, messily emotional world of love and relationships for so many years – it was just like him to now jump in, fully clothed, and end up floundering in the deep end. It was hardly his area of expertise either, as had been plainly demonstrated by the mess he'd gone through with Sherlock, but at least his temperament and inclinations had made it easier to largely compartmentalise that side of his life away where it wouldn't interfere with day-to-day matters. A casual arrangement with suitably discrete people he had no personal or professional involvement with seemed far preferable to developing potentially unrequited romantic desires for someone you shared accommodation with.

"Have you tried actually having a conversation-" he began.

"I don't want to talk about it, Mycroft," Sherlock interrupted roughly. "I didn't come her for another one of your patronising agony aunt chats about my lack of social skills."

"Didn't you?" He felt a tension he hadn't realised he'd been holding unravel, and simultaneously chided himself for gaining any sense of satisfaction from this whole, wretched state of affairs. "Well, what are you here for then?" Mycroft asked, his turn to feign ignorance.

His innocent expression worked no better on Sherlock. "You know what I'm here for," he replied, stepping up the nervous skittering of his leg.

Mycroft raised a questioning eyebrow. "That's a shade presumptive on your part, don't you think? Short of me stopping by one of your crime scenes to check you hadn't actually poisoned yourself with that ridiculous rigged pill game, I've neither seen nor heard of you for – as you say – seventy nine days." Though he'd been still didn't fully want to admit it to himself, Sherlock's unexplained breaking off from their irregular meetings had hurt. It still hurt. And yet, in a replay of practically every interaction they'd had since they were children, his brother seemed oblivious to the feelings he had trampled over.

Before he could stop it, a sudden childish urge to hurt his brother back welled up in his chest, and there was a rather obligingly large new target for verbal barbs. "I rather thought you'd been too busy ensconced in domestic bliss at Baker Street," he said archly.

Sherlock's face twisted as shadows of shock and anger passed across it, settling into a controlled blankness. Mycroft instantly regretted his comment, knowing that this was an area too raw and that he would gain nothing from a descent into a petty fraternal squabble, but it was several seconds too late for such regrets. He simply sighed and rubbed at his scratchy eyes.

"Sherlock, I'm tired and it's late, so maybe you should..."

"Are you jealous?"

Mycroft frowned, derailed by the blandly phrased question. "What?"

"Are you jealous." Sherlock repeated, eyeing him with a curious expression as though reappraising a once-established theory. "At the prospect that I might one day have something with John. Or someone else. And that then this would end."

Mycroft struggled to collect his thoughts into some coherence, with little success. "I simply want you to be happy," he began, searching for some way to explain something he wasn't sure he even fully understood himself. "You'll agree that ours is a complicated relationship..."

His attempts were interrupted by a scoff of laughter. "What gave it away? Meddling in every aspect of my life since I was old enough to walk? Spying on my every move and interrogating anyone I spend time with? Or was it our secretly meeting up once a month for a quick incestuous shag?"

"Sherlock," Mycroft admonished, colouring and getting abruptly to his feet as he struggled to maintain a sense of composure. He took a few paces across to the window and attempted to absorb himself in a study of the shadowed garden, looking past the reflection of his burning face. "I think you should leave, and we can discuss this matter at another time," he said firmly.

His brother's steps were silent on the thick carpet, giving Sherlock's reflected appearance in the window at his shoulder the air of a magical apparition. "I might have initiated it," he commented slyly, "but as I recall you were a far from reluctant participant."

The memory surfaced, unbidden. Shortly after the latest – and how he hoped it would be the final – discharge from the rehabilitation facility. His brother had made an uninvited appearance in his bedroom at two in the morning, a pale spectre conjured up from the remnants of a fevered dream. He'd been shaking so much Mycroft hadn't been sure if he was coming down from something or just craving it, and for want of a better solution he'd beckoned his brother to join him as he had when a six year old Sherlock would seek comfort from nightmares under the protection of his bedcovers. Shedding most of his clothes, Sherlock had crawled in next to him and Mycroft had settled his arms around his spare – but much taller than he remembered – frame, trying to rub some warmth into him and hoping that his presence would do something to soothe the turmoil was taking over his brother's mind.

Feeling Sherlock shift next to him and the sudden crush of lips against his own as a chilly hand delved beneath the waistband of his pyjamas – well it had been unexpected, to say the least. But – according to a distant, usually ignored and later much chastised segment of his brain – not unpleasant, once he'd firmly established that his brother was not actually under the influence of anything and was apparently in full possession of his faculties. He had so often longed for Sherlock to come to him for help rather than turning back to the drugs that would end up destroying his mind, he wasn't about to reject him now it had finally happened, even if it was an unexpected development. There had been some jumbled murmuring about dopamine receptors and he rather gathered that this was all one of Sherlock's typically unorthodox experiments, but by that stage Mycroft's attention had been quite pointedly elsewhere – what Sherlock lacked in experience he certainly seemed to make up for in enthusiasm.

What prompted all this he'd never quite managed to establish. But then his brother never had been much for social norms, and if he was honest then Mycroft supposed at first he'd just been quite pathetically grateful that Sherlock would choose to turn to him, to trust him in that way. He recognised that the situation was hardly what most people would describe as "healthy", and that he should bear the largest proportion of the blame as the elder sibling. It was his responsibility to find a more suitable outlet for Sherlock's addictive personality. And he had tried – arranging for his brother to begin working with Scotland Yard, in a limited capacity and on the proviso that he remained clean. The work was Sherlock's overriding obsession, and he had hoped that would occupy him as his mind and body readjusted to life without his addiction being chemically fed.

But despite his efforts every month or so he would find a visitor waiting at his club or creeping into his room late at night, buzzing with energy and a cascade of thoughts that were running beyond his control. It seemed there could never be enough murders and mysteries to fully slake his brother's thirst. And he would submit to Sherlock's fevered touch and exploratory gaze, mirroring him in turn, and he would do his best to drown out those thoughts with sensation. Then, when his brother was sated and lying uncoiled next to him, breathing slowed by rare rejuvenating sleep, he knew that the more destructive urges had been buried for the time being. Mycroft had grown accustomed to this new intimacy he was permitted to share with his brother, he had even started to eagerly anticipate it. But it couldn't be in either of their interests to allow this sordid pattern of behaviour to continue.

"As I recall I was hardly consulted on the matter," Mycroft corrected lightly, watching that pale face reflected in the glass. "I accepted a long time ago that this... arrangement, was merely a substitute for your other, less preferable distractions. In the past few months I believed that you had moved on, and on reflection I feel it really would be for the best that we don't return to the previous state of affairs." He could see the frown darken the reflection before him. "Even if things don't progress for you domestically, there are numerous agencies that provide a service that could assist you..."

"No. It wouldn't be the same," Sherlock countered fiercely. "You've got the same mind, you know what it's like when you need something to drive the noise out. You do it right. This helps."

Mycroft recalled Sherlock's earlier attempts to drown out the perpetual clamour of thoughts with sensation, when he'd lost more nights than he cared to remember in vigils at hospital bedsides. "They say that yoga and meditation does wonders," he joked mirthlessly.

"My..." he felt a tug at his arm where Sherlock was now griping his elbow, and turned to see his brother's questioning eyes. "Please. Whatever might happen with John, one day... I need this now – I need it with you."

All his arguments and reasoning seemed to dissipate as Mycroft struggled to swallow the sudden lump in his throat. He allowed himself to be enveloped in a crushing hug and told himself that there was nothing wrong with feeling so comforted by the familiar scent of his brother, unconsciously counting the number of cigarettes he smoked in the garden earlier as he took in the lingering scent combined with the more usual coffee, chemicals and soap.

He felt slender fingers trace lightly across his throat, skimming the top of the stiff, starched collar that seemed suddenly so restrictive. In turn he rested his hand lightly against the expanse of his brother's pale neck, feeling the steady pulse of blood that passed so shallowly beneath his fingertips – the blood that connected them, the pulse a counterpoint to his own.

Sherlock lent across to claim a kiss, starting slowly but with rapidly growing impatience that was matched by a roving, grasping touch. Mycroft could read his intentions as plainly as though he were speaking. He wanted to work his fingers into the knot of his brother's tie, wrenching at the silk. He wanted to peel off the sober charcoal jacket and waistcoat, discarding them carelessly on the floor, to a sound of grumbled disapproval that he would quickly distract. He wanted to fumble with the delicate mother of pearl shirt buttons that still barred his way, or better still to rip and tear at the expensive material to send them flying in iridescent cartwheels across the carpet. He wanted to make him come undone, and Mycroft wanted to let him.

To his surprise, Sherlock suddenly broke the kiss and instead stilled for a moment, resting their foreheads together. Then he murmured something inaudible that might have been _thank you_.

As his brother returned to kissing at his neck Mycroft knew then that, dangerous and flawed as it may be, he was never going to get over this.


End file.
